I've been waiting for her for what seems like an eternity. I even got there thirty minutes earlier than the agreed upon time. Mainly because I received several pressuring text messages from her reminding me the importance of tonight's gala. I assured her that I would not be late; her response, delivered in a tone which I can describe only as reproachful: “You better not be.”
On my arrival, I was greeted at the door by her roommate, who mercifully informed me, “Sorry dude, Helena isn't ready yet.” What her roommate really wanted to say was, “You poor sap, don't you know her by now? Why are you here so early?”
Her roommate announces my arrival to Helena, which garners absolutely no response. She shrugs her shoulders and motions me to take a seat on the couch. Her roommate exits the shared living room space and flees back to the safety of her own room. I wait in silence for about thirty minutes and still, no Helena. From where I'm sitting her room is about ten feet away. Twenty more minutes pass and I finally decide to say something. Ass still firmly planted on the couch, I loudly (but cautiously) proclaim, “Hey I'm here.” *Crickets*
The two of us met about a month ago at one of these special events. The name of the event was “the event that you've been to a millions times already that’s suppose to be highly exclusive, yet a gazillion people got the Facebook invite.” A friend of a friend of a friend introduced us. I remember being blown away by Helena's physical attributes. She had cheek bones that could cut through glass and bone structure that you knew would lead to nothing but heartache and headaches. By the end of the night, I was able to charm her into giving me her contact information. By charm her, I mean convince her, and by contact information, I mean “add me on Facebook.” Surprisingly, she did. Exceeding any expectations, she eventually gave me her phone number and suggested we hang out. If Mary could conceive without sexual intercourse or in vitro fertilization, I guess anything's possible.
After taking her to a couple of extravagant restaurants, she decisively stated, “You're ok. You can date me.” To which I ecstatically responded, “Really? That's awesome!” I wanted to thank her for her gracious conclusion by writing her a heartfelt poetic letter, but I didn't. On second thought, she would have thought that was totally lame; instead, I bought her an expensive pair of shoes. She was happy with that. I'm glad.
I couldn't wait to show her to my friends. I imagined them being completely envious, but they didn't receive her with the welcoming greeting I had envisioned – they seemed almost apprehensive. In fact, she seemed to offend them in various ways. She told Jimmy that being overweight leads to a shortened life expectancy. She commented that Rachael's sweater was last season. She informed Kyle that his music sounded commercial. How is all of that offensive? Jimmy did need to lose a few pounds, she was just looking out for his health. Last season means it’s now on sale and who doesn’t love a deal? And commercial equates to record sales, right?
Sitting on this couch, not moving, is beginning to numb the cheeks of my ass. I finally get up and walk towards the door of her bedroom. I knock twice and say, “Babe, are you okay in there? Do you need my help?”
She throws open the door and loudly announces, “God, I have nothing to wear!”
She walks over to her mirror, stares at her self for a moment, and matter-of-factly says, “I look hideous.”
When Helena looks in the mirror she sees an unattractive, overweight person. This in spite of her profession, which employs her for her obvious photographic and sexual physical advantages over the majority of the general population. Actually, maybe because of that fact. The gift and the curse of being a model: lethal self-consciousness.
She turns to me for reassurance. I put my prescription glasses on to get a better look. I faithfully oblige, saying, “Babe, you look amazing.”
She grabs my glasses from my face and launches them at the mirror, shattering both lenses.
We've been dating for a couple months now and my friends are worried – how can I put this delicately? – that I've become “subjugated to being governed.” Or as Kyle crassly said to me the other night, “Dude you're whipped.” I totally disagree. I think he's secretly jealous of me. What does he know, his music is “commercial.” It's alright. Really. I needed a new pair of glasses anyways.